By the Gun
by Lost In Rotation
Summary: "This is Wyoming; everyone hears gunshots." A Branch Connally drabble with spoilers through season 3


He'd known it was not going to be a pleasant visit with his father when he'd shown up to shoot trap. He'd had the question on his mind since he'd left the office, and it had been stewing in his head the entire time until he posed the question. Even though he'd known it in his gut, his father's confession was still a surprise.

Of course, what followed next was even more shocking.

It wasn't the sound of the gunshot that had surprised him. After all, everyone heard gunshots in Wyoming. It was the feeling that came next, the one that was only too familiar to him after recent events. The feeling of his entire body, save his arm and shoulder, going numb. Then the sound of another shot, this one he was fairly certain was his own. Then the rest of his limbs giving into the emptiness of nothing. Nothing but shock.

He hadn't felt the blood as he pressed his hand to his abdomen. Didn't feel its sticky warmth as it spread across his shirt and hand. But he did see the dark, vibrant red of the viscous liquid seeping from his body. Quite honestly, he was tired of the sight. At that moment he was tired, period.

The ambulance happened next, though he barely remembers any of it. All he can remember now is thinking, over and over, "Son of a bitch shot me." His own father. And, worse yet, he'd shot back. Only he was a better shot than his father would ever be. Only he hadn't been aiming to kill, like the bullet that ripped through his flesh was supposed to. He'd intended to disarm, to keep the fatal shot from following.

 _"Branch."_

He's standing in the hospital, having one of those out of body experiences, it would seem. The incident, for it can hardly be classified as an 'accident', and the following ambulance ride are a distant memory. The doctors, no longer crowding around him as they did while they wheeled him through the halls of the hospital barking orders this way and that, are nowhere to be seen. The room is surprisingly empty. The divider curtains in the room are pushed back against the wall, revealing the empty hospital bed also occupying the other side of room.

" _Branch_."

He turns, this ghost version of himself, but there are only two bodies in the room, both asleep. One lays, unconscious, in the hospital bed. It's him, though he has no idea how he can be in two places at once. The other is a sleeping lump curled up in the uncomfortable visitor's chair pulled next to the bed. She's holding his hand, the version of him asleep in the bed. The hovering version, the one standing at the end of the bed, half assured this must be purgatory, swears he can feel the warmth of her skin on his though his hand is open and empty.

" _Branch_."

The sound of his name is more insistent this time. He glances to the sole window in the room, just past the nightstand butted up against the side of the bed. A tree branch, devoid of any leaves, scrapes against the glass pane. He swears the sound must come from there, as there is no other movement in the room. Simply a tale of his mind playing tricks on him, substituting an object's name for its sound.

The monitor, connected to the bedridden version of him through one of numerous wires and tubes attached to him, continues its rhythmic progress, though he doesn't hear the beeps he expects to here. In fact, apart from the sudden whispers of his name, the room is eerily void of any noise. If nothing else, he should be able to hear the cacophony of noises from other patients and staff in the hallway. Instead, there is only silence.

Then the whole world starts to shake. With his feet planted solidly on the ground, the rest of the room violently sways from side to side around him. " _Branch_ ," he hears again, only this time the voice is different.

It isn't the room that shakes around him this time. He's falling, sliding, slipping. Down, down, down. He lands with his trademark cowboy hat askew, his hands just above his vest. He remembers this as well, just as vividly, even though it's an older memory.

It was two shots then. One to the gut, the other to his shoulder. Two pools of the sticky, dark red substance ruining his deputy's uniform. But the feeling had been the same then. The sharp surprise of a small, fast as fuck piece of metal ripping through his body. Piercing him through the front, then tearing through the back, as if he was nothing more than a piece of paper.

"Who shot you?" a gruff but concerned voice had asked. And he had found it funny that this man who had done nothing short of despise him for such a long time coming, could muster up that kind of emotion for him. He had wanted to laugh, but even the thought of laughter had sent pain trembling across his muscles.

"Who shot you, Branch?" Walt had asked again, a little more insistent the second time.

He hadn't wanted to say, for he barely believed it himself. He had half a mind that he'd conjured it up in his blood loss. But after the prying, he'd responded, "A dead man." Then he'd thought he'd be the dead man next.

" _Branch_."

The voice shifts again. Softer, lighter, kinder. And as the tone shifts, so does the world around him. He's no longer holding a shot gun, staring at his father in shock. He's no longer laying, unconscious, in a hospital bed. The ground beneath him isn't the sharp and jagged rocks on the Indian reservation. The face hovering over him isn't that of Walt Longmire, but of his daughter.

It turns out he is still, in fact, in a hospital bed. He realizes this as he turns towards her voice, shifting in the bed. The tubes tug in protest, the prickles of the needles taped in his skin a warning to cease movement. But at least there is only one version of himself present now as far as he can tell. He's the one laying in the bed, still holding her hand.

"Nurse!" she yells next, her head disappearing from view until he rolls his head on his stiff neck to get a better look. She's shifted in her chair to face the door standing slightly ajar. "Nurse!" she calls again for good measure. Then she's back to looking at him, and he wants to reach out and stroke that beautiful face of hers.

He tries to crock out her name, but sandpaper lines his vocal chords. His attempt only yields in a hacking cough, which makes every part of his body from his chin to his stomach stab with pain. As much as he wants to, he knows he shouldn't move. So he lays there, feeling pathetic and utterly useless. He wonders what nightmare he is living this time, as this one feels new. He wonders how many times he will have to relive the agony, the pain, the hurt, the suffering. All of it, over and over again. As if getting shot twice in one go wasn't enough, fate decided he needed a second shooting as well. He wonders how long he'll keep fighting until he feels like giving up.

"Welcome back," she says softly, reaching forward to tentatively brush his cheek. Her palm is cool to the touch, unlike the hand still holding his, which feels warm. Perhaps that's just him.

He doesn't see the nurse enter the room. His eyes refuse to go to all the unfamiliar objects around him and instead stay laser focused on the one familiar thing. Her. But then the cacophony of noises reaches a crescendo, and there is not one but many unfamiliar faces looking over him.

He has no idea where he went to. If it was only the memories of his shootings, then he supposes it's better to be back. But he can't help but hope there is something better in this world, waiting for him just beyond the horizon. He's rather tired of waking up in hospital beds. As the nurses move about, she resiliently clings to his hand. He tries to squeeze back, but can't tell if he succeeds or not. He hopes he didn't leap out of the bed and put her in a choke hold again.

Everything that follows feels familiar. The only difference now is that he isn't musing about a dead man. Instead, he's wondering about his father. And then he forces his mind blank, because it doesn't want to go there. He closes his eyes, enjoying the feel of her fingers stroking his cheek and the nurses and doctor or whoever they are poke and prod and test. He's tired of thinking. Of dreaming and remembering. Just tired of it all.


End file.
